


Comfort From Little Care

by word_docs_and_willowboughs



Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [3]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Insomnia, Lymond is a lady, Nightmares, Past Slavery, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Pre-Book 1: The Game of Kings, Rule 63, Sharing a Bed, margaret is guilt-tripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_docs_and_willowboughs/pseuds/word_docs_and_willowboughs
Summary: (From a prompt from sshymm: "it's alright to cry")Early on in her year-long stay with the Lennoxes, Frances Crawford is discovered by Margaret unable to sleep. The question of wether her nightmares are warranted does not make things any easier; the comfort of a shared bed does.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Margaret Douglas
Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585696





	Comfort From Little Care

**Author's Note:**

> Rule 63 AU in which Lymond is a girl  
> Francis = Frances

Margaret should have been asleep when she saw the glow of candlelight pass through the crack under her door. It wasn’t terribly late, but she’d bored herself with trying to read, something out of the Bible. However, in the absence of her husband, she’d lost her place in liturgy, opened it at random to something to obscenely romantic for mention in Mass, and flipped it by mistake to a psalm moping over abandonment by God. Under other circumstances she might have dissected either, but an evening wanting for company was not a good time to think on Solomon’s lovers or a poet’s petulant laments.

Glad of the distraction, she rose at the sound of footsteps, and opened the door a crack to see a white chemise that stood out even in the dim light. Frances Crawford had left the room nearby where she was meant to sleep, and was sitting leaned back against the wall with a candlestick beside her, hugging her knees to her chest. There was a shuddering breath that was audible down the short corridor, and then she rose, the candle in hand, without noticing Margaret step from the room. 

There was no particular reason for Margaret to guess that Frances had meant to see her, even with her back to her and shifting nervously. With Matthew gone and the girl’s wounds healed, why shouldn’t she seek her out? She was quiet in approaching her, but didn’t think of startling her so much as giving her a pleasant surprise when she slipped her arms around her waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. Instead, Frances dropped the candle, gasped sharply, and in an instant had a painful, bruising grip on Margaret’s wrists. 

“Calm down,” said Margaret. “It’s me.” Frances released her at once, but none of the tension left her body.  
“With due respect,” she said very tersely as she turned to face Margaret, “Never do that again.”   
“I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.” Margaret put her hands on her hips and tried not to sound defensive. “I thought you were coming to see me.”   
“Oh.” That she hadn’t been was obvious in her tone, and Margaret stifled her disappointment. Even in the darkness, she could see that Frances’s cropped golden hair was a little wild, her chemise had slid off one shoulder. She was briefly tempted to reach out and put it to rights, but touching her seemed inadvisable just now; it might push her away. 

“Why were you wandering, then?” Frances shrugged.   
“It’s my fault. Apparently my thoughts can fill up anywhere enough to make it stifling; I needed some air.” That was when Margaret understood that even now, she was afraid, and she had been before Margaret had appeared; she hadn’t gone looking for anything, she had fled.  
“Are you sure,” said Margaret, “that you don’t want company?”  
“Why should I?” Margaret hesitated, loathe to point out what Frances had failed to conceal, but before it became necessary Frances saved her. “You must forgive my dramatics… I haven’t slept terribly well lately. It’s a little wearing, but I don’t see much point in trying.”  
“I can imagine.” The irony of her parallel situation was not lost on Margaret, though hers had been altogether more pleasant, and her designs more selfish. “Are you in pain still? I could find—”  
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Frances, a touch of harshness beneath the carefully neutral tone. “I do not… want for help. I don’t want to sleep.” 

Margaret almost touched her arm, but kept still instead.  
“Dreams?” Frances only nodded curtly in reply. Perhaps it was only because her breath had caught, but her eyes were shining suddenly.  
“It’s alright to cry,” Margaret said, but her indulgent tone sounded hollow even in her own ears. It was a relief when Frances did not, and instead breathed deeply, bit her lip, and blinked until she recovered herself. She did not, however, smile, instead leaving her face oddly blank and mask-like. Margaret reached out, against her better judgement, and drew her gently to her chest, mindful of any pain she might cause, or upset. For once Frances didn’t flinch or freeze, but exhaled and laid her head on her shoulder, and Margaret could nearly feel her exhaustion. In a moment of charity, she said, “Stay here with me tonight.You know my husband is away.”  
“What if I disturb you?” Frances murmured without moving.  
“You won’t. You’ll be alright if you’re here. Now,” She stepped back and took Frances’s hands in hers. When she led her back to her empty, unmade bed she met no resistance, and if Frances was hesitant to take the place offered, when she finally assented Margaret could feel the tension leave her when she held her close from behind, the touch expected this time.

———

They fell asleep together without speaking, and if Frances had nightmares Margaret was peacefully unaware. She woke first, but let Frances stay where she was, sitting up beside her to look down at the way slivers of sunlight made the hair cut short by her captors in a failed design to shame her shine like pale gold and the white of scars crisscrossing her half-bared shoulder stand out in sharp relief against her skin. Margaret marveled at it, all of it, and none of it seemed so horrible as it had when she had seen her first. Of course, there was a tug of sympathy at the signs of her captivity, but there were other things she could not help but notice; she was too thin, but her arms had hardened muscle to them that had not been there before, and the sun-weathered features were as fine as had been, the shadowed blue eyes still bright. 

Even looking over the havoc of scars and branding that marked her body, Frances Crawford was beautiful and Margaret was not ashamed in thinking so. She had the right, having known her in many ways before and aided her now, and Matthew was too much a fool to think it any of his concern. The gratitude she’d seen in Frances’s eyes the night before was everything. What had been broken Margaret would heal, and anything Frances had lost or hidden inside herself could be drawn out again. The odd confluence that had brought the two of them together was simple evidence of the fact that to do so was her duty, and any reward Frances offered was her right.

Just then, though it could not be glimpsed, the thought of Frances’s bright intelligence seemed beautiful to Margaret as well, because the French had certainly not beaten or burnt it out of her, and she was clever enough to discern for herself what Margaret had. Some things were simply more easily done than spoken of, and there was much to be done with the woman who seemed almost casual in sharing her bed. The smile that the thought brought her was still on her lips when Frances opened her eyes and smiled back with some surprise, and above all relief.

“Thank you,” she said, “for letting me stay.”  
“Of course you can,” she said. You have nowhere else to go. “I won’t have you out on the street, even now you’re well.”  
“Well,” Frances repeated automatically, and Margaret went on,  
“I want you here, you know. I think this was meant to happen.”  
“Meant to?” For a moment Frances seemed totally stunned. As she sat up the neck of her shift slipped down and Margaret couldn’t help watching the way a lock of hair fell into her face, at once elegant and disarrayed. 

“You seem rather… pleased with my fate. I credit you with rescue, certainly, but I can’t thank the stars or the English for sending me to Hell, even if you came down to fetch me back.”  
“I’m not pleased,” said Margaret. “Or… it isn’t what happened I’m glad of, it’s the outcome.” Frances scoffed incredulously.  
“What? The scars? Your knight has seen battle indeed, if it was ignoble.”  
“You’re stronger,” said Margaret. “Your heart is stronger… Frances, I know it hurt you, but you’ve grown up.” The laugh she was answered with had a note of hysteria.  
“Yes, I have, and I’ve had a fine education indeed.” Margaret ignored the dark undertone and smiled as well, saying all too lightly,  
“Well, at least you were out in the sun.” She ruffled her hair and Frances’s jaw spasmed. “And I can say with certainty that I didn’t learn any Spanish behind bars.” 

Frances’s eyes lit up, with mirth and, Margaret worried, anger, but she was perfectly calm when she spoke. Her tone lilted and sweet as she recalled before Solway, before everything.  
“ _Mi musa mentirosa…el olvido personificada _.” Though Margaret wondered after the meaning of her words, when Frances smiled softly, said, “ _Te amo _,” and kissed her, she truly believed that the last phrase, a familiar almost-Latin in her ears, was all that mattered. It would be nearly a year before she knew with certainty that she was wrong.____


End file.
